


No Bird Soars Too High

by kyrilu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Scars, Showers, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tragedy and connection. Sometimes it's the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Bird Soars Too High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beaufort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beaufort/gifts).



> Written for a prompt by [jdforest](http://jdforest.tumblr.com/), who wanted Brownham flirtation and UST. This also may have been inspired by drinkbloodlikewine's fic [In An Unexpected Place](http://drinkbloodlikewine.tumblr.com/post/81000528914/fic-in-an-unexpected-place/mobile) because, well, the BSCHI's shower room. /o\
> 
> jdforest, I’m so, so sorry that this didn’t really turn out fluffy. ;_; I hope that it works for you; I have no idea what happened here. My Matthew in this fic ended up having a strange idea of flirtation, oh my god. D:
> 
> Also, this is totally me making up for Brownham Week, Day 3: Tattoos and Scars.

The orderly is staring at him. He has moved out from behind the barriers in the room that are the shower walls.

Will is pulling on his coveralls. His face is turned toward the tiled walls, toward the nailed-in metal rack on the tiles that houses a bar of soap. But there’s a mirror above the rack. Will pauses--with his coveralls half on, his hair wet, a rough towel in his hand--to look. Steam circulates in the room, fogging up the reflections in the mirror, yet he can tell that the orderly is watching. Watching the brief, bare glimpse of Will’s back.

Will makes a huffed noise that might be a laugh. He puts a hand on the mirror, clearing the fog away, and makes eye contact with the dark eyes reflected on the surface. He doesn’t turn to hold real eye contact, just keeps it this way. He is searching for confirmation of something that is new and different and strange.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Matthew?” he says, slowly. The orderly’s name is Matthew Brown. He hasn’t addressed the orderly this way, but he has seen the badge on his chest and memorized it.

Matthew grins, a curve that lasts for a half-second. “It’s nothing, Mr. Graham. I was...appreciating the space you have on your back. Mine’s covered in tattoos.”

Will sees Matthew start to walk closer to him, his shoes making quiet sloshing sounds on the wet floor. He doesn’t break his gaze from the mirror.

“And,” Matthew says, with an incline of his head, an admission, “it’s a nice back.”

“Oh?” Will says. He can see his eyebrows rising, in the mirror.

Matthew stops where he is. He is directly behind Will, his breath almost on the nape of Will’s neck. Will continues to follow Matthew’s movements through his reflection, and he catches the smile that is playing on the edges of Matthew’s mouth.

“You don’t have scars here,” Matthew murmurs. “You have a bullet wound on your stomach. Here, however--it’s only empty skin. The curve of your spine. The contours of muscle. People are always marked somehow, Mr. Graham. Tattoos or scars or anything indelible. Sometimes it’s invisible.”

“Marked,” Will repeats, wry. “I haven’t considered a--a concept like that before. But don’t you think that the invisibility suggests the visibility? What happens underneath can be reflected on the surface. I think you know what makes up the unseen.”

Matthew shrugs, as if the reasons aren’t important, but he speaks anyway. “You can be marked by tragedy--you had a confrontation the led to an arrest. You can be marked by connection--my tattoos are the sum of inspiration from an old, former friend. Tragedy and connection...sometimes it’s the same thing.” There’s a flash of sadness in his eyes, but it’s momentary, gone.

Will thinks of pointing a gun at Hannibal Lecter. He thinks of finally reaching the truth, making a conclusion, seeing the stag rise from the shadows.

“You want a connection with me,” Will says.

“It’s only natural,” Matthew says. “If this involved birds, I would call this imprinting. The bird of prey in its cage, while the falconer dedicates himself to it. This isn’t training; I consider us more equal than that. But this could work, Mr. Graham. Indelible and connected.”

Will sees Matthew’s offer take form. He recognizes the darkness in the eyes of Matthew’s reflection, a familiar hushed madness that he knows very well. He says, “And how would I be marked?”

“However you like,” Matthew says.

But he puts a finger on the exposed skin of Will’s back, trailing shapes through damp moisture, and Will knows, even with his eyes fluttering closed, that he is tracing wings.


End file.
